The Leaky Tunnel
When travelling, not reading the news, not listening to the radio, one gets out of touch. I spoke to about 5 Americans yesterday, each time asking them, "Hey, you know what day it is today?" All took about 5 seconds until they inhaled quickly and exclaimed "my gosh! It's the 11th, isn't it!"
I have a big gross mosquito bite on my right hand that I have trouble ignoring while I type.
It seemed a good idea to take it slow and relax. I sat on a bench for two hours talking to the people I met the night before, eating some spagetti, and admiring the old Italian people passing by.
Why not take a stroll around town? I did. I walked up some stairs, and noticed that my view of the city was good. I walked up some more stairs and got an even better shot of Riomaggiore. I kept going. Soon, I was climbing hundreds of stairs, out of the town, past a church, past a cemetery. When I hit the highway, Riomaggiore seemed far away (1 km downhill), and I noticed a sign for the next town, only 5 km away, so I started walking down the highway.
Not quite as pretty as the footpaths, but higher up. I crossed a tall bridge spanning a deep gap in the mountains. I walked through a dark tunnel, water dripping on my head. After about an hour of walking, I arrived in the next town, bought a bottle of wine and went swimming in the ocean, which was very refreshing.
Returned to town and had more or less of a repeat of the previous nights. Made myself a gorgonzola and salami sandwich, talked to a Washingtonian girl about the mysterious Romanian who would be visiting her that evening from Rome (from the looks of what I later observed, things went quite well). Met up with Noah and Garrett from the night before, as well as some other youngish travellers. The conversation wasn't as exciting as it had been the night before, but we wandered up the road and spoke to an on Italian man with a dog. Using a strange English/Spanish/Italian/French pidgeon, we were able to identify ourselves, our professions, where we were from, where we were going and list some things we liked. My fellow English speaking travellers were impressed with my ability to communicate without knowing any Italian. There was a certain absurdity in translating back into English a statement which wasn't properly of any language at all.
The recently married couple from wine country passed by, and shouted my name. Here's something funny about travelling alone. You can spend hours and hours in solitude, wishing for just one person to chit chat with, anything to not be alone. But sometimes all the people you met throughout the week all converge in one place and you end up with TOO MANY people to which to talk.
I slept soundly.
I have a big gross mosquito bite on my right hand that I have trouble ignoring while I type.
It seemed a good idea to take it slow and relax. I sat on a bench for two hours talking to the people I met the night before, eating some spagetti, and admiring the old Italian people passing by.
Why not take a stroll around town? I did. I walked up some stairs, and noticed that my view of the city was good. I walked up some more stairs and got an even better shot of Riomaggiore. I kept going. Soon, I was climbing hundreds of stairs, out of the town, past a church, past a cemetery. When I hit the highway, Riomaggiore seemed far away (1 km downhill), and I noticed a sign for the next town, only 5 km away, so I started walking down the highway.
Not quite as pretty as the footpaths, but higher up. I crossed a tall bridge spanning a deep gap in the mountains. I walked through a dark tunnel, water dripping on my head. After about an hour of walking, I arrived in the next town, bought a bottle of wine and went swimming in the ocean, which was very refreshing.
Returned to town and had more or less of a repeat of the previous nights. Made myself a gorgonzola and salami sandwich, talked to a Washingtonian girl about the mysterious Romanian who would be visiting her that evening from Rome (from the looks of what I later observed, things went quite well). Met up with Noah and Garrett from the night before, as well as some other youngish travellers. The conversation wasn't as exciting as it had been the night before, but we wandered up the road and spoke to an on Italian man with a dog. Using a strange English/Spanish/Italian/French pidgeon, we were able to identify ourselves, our professions, where we were from, where we were going and list some things we liked. My fellow English speaking travellers were impressed with my ability to communicate without knowing any Italian. There was a certain absurdity in translating back into English a statement which wasn't properly of any language at all.
The recently married couple from wine country passed by, and shouted my name. Here's something funny about travelling alone. You can spend hours and hours in solitude, wishing for just one person to chit chat with, anything to not be alone. But sometimes all the people you met throughout the week all converge in one place and you end up with TOO MANY people to which to talk.
I slept soundly.
posted by Jed at 3:20 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home